So. This post has been sitting in my draft file for-evah. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post it for 3 reasons.

There is a lot of cursing involved.

There is a lot of talking about lady bits and their malfunctions.

No one likes a complainer.

Here are the reasons I posted it anyway.

The cursing is APPROPRIATE for me in this post. Besides, I have a feeling no one really fucking cares about it anyway. Damnit.

My lady readers are not weirded out by lady bits. If they are they need to make friends with their lady bits. My male readers are way too hardcore to be weirded out by a little bit of lady bit talk. (If I’m wrong? YOU’VE BEEN WARNED)

My knee-jerk? I’m not complaining. But, alas, there is some bitching going on here. However, awareness is good as in “Hi! I’m Endometriosis! I want to get stabby! Let’s be friends!” and “Yes, I say I’m fine but I am in a lot of pain but you really don’t want to hear about it because you’ve heard it before or you’re more comfortable with talk of flesh wounds.” Also? I just HAD to get this off of my chest and out of my draft file. Close or read on:

Endometriosis (from endo, “inside”, and metra, “womb”)

You know what’s supposed to be inside my WOMB, Endometriosis? A baby. My womb is supposed to be a warm hospitable enviroment in which to grow a child.

And the misnomer, by the way, is a dick move. YOU aren’t even INSIDE my WOMB. You’re all outside of it… on my intestines and ovaries… hidden in corners like a little bitch.

You disguised yourself for years. Deceiving doctors and making me loopy with pain then making me question it. If no one can find anything, am I really in pain? Am I THAT much of a pain wuss?

You didn’t show yourself until they opened me up and looked you in the eye. Burnt you. You hid and grew some more.

Then, just to trick fuck you, we conceived our baby boy. You hadn’t invaded my tubes yet and you didn’t make me infertile like you do 40% of us. (You are such an asshole)

Suddenly: Bliss. No pain.
He arrived and I was feeling fine until now. Now you’re stabbing me and whispering in my ear:

“I’m rotting your insides”

“The pain’s not going to stop”

“Are you sure you should take another pill?”

“You’re going to have to get all your insides ripped out.”

(That last was said all sing-song like, the prick!)

But you know what I’m really tired of? The way you’re making me feel. The way I’m letting you make me feel. The sadness about a choice: hysterectomy or not – it could help (COULD being the operative word here) (Operative being the intentional pun there). I don’t always get a choice when it comes to depression but right now I’m putting myself there. I’m opening the dark closet and pointing the way.

Fuck. That.

You know, Endo, you’re just pain right now. Good, old-fashioned pain. WHOOP-TEE-DO! You couldn’t even kill me if you wanted to. I’ve known LAUGHTER with a higher mortality rate.

So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to do what I always do with irritating bitches such as yourself. I’m going to ignore you. I’m going to roll my eyes at you when you’re at your loudest and quietly be proud of that accomplishment. I’m going to label the bottle of pills my “STFU ENDO” pills.

That’s right Endo, SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.

I’m getting down on the floor and playing with my son. I’m going to get out of bed and spend time with my family. I’m going to run. I’m going to gracefully live with your pain. And the next time I see you in the operating room? I’m totally going to kick your ass.

I was in pain here. See how my son's knee is jammed against my ovary? Ouch. WORTH IT.